


Family Dinner

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Cuddling, Family Dinner, Family History, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1846936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They're quite similar, aren't they, your parents?"<br/>"To each other?" Sherlock turns his hand over, like an invitation, and John traces his fingertips around his palm. He does not look at Sherlock, not yet.<br/>"No, to... us."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Dinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tallenough](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tallenough).



"Yeah, but she said 'family dinner'. Why do I have to come too?"

 Sherlock directs a pointed glance at him before looking back at the road.

 "She likes you, God only knows why."

 John snorts a little. "You've put up with me long enough."

 He sees Sherlock's fingers twitch on the steering wheel.

 "There'll be no helicopter to get us out of this one."

 "Right, and no drugging your parents either?"

 "Nn."

 "No, Sherlock, _no_ drugging your parents. Or your brother. Especially your brother; I've got to deal with him more often than with Mum and Dad."

 "Yes, John," he intones, reaching out to briefly squeeze his knee.

 

* * *

 

Will meets them at the door.

 "Ah, so nice to see you both!" He returns John's handshake firmly, running his palm down Sherlock's upper arm. "Come in, come in. Mum's just getting drinks, and I won't be long with dinner."

 Handing over the bottle of wine he is still telling himself cost half as much as it did, John murmurs thanks and sidles into the lounge room. Mycroft sits in an armchair, with a surprisingly relaxed posture and tender smile, texting. In an instant he schools his expression, but remains slouching. He barely spares John a glance, although he manages a polite greeting.

 "I hope I'm not intruding here," John says, to say something.

 "Not at all. I doubt there is anywhere outside Baker Street that you would be more welcome."

 It's said dryly, and it isn't even Mycroft's house for him to say such a thing, but John has gained some idea of when to take Mycroft at his word, and it does put him a little at ease.

 "Your mum rang me directly to invite us. I assume you gave her my number."

 "No, that was Sherlock."

 John blinks. "Al...right. Well, how often can I expect these invites? I don't mind, of course. Just want to know how many Sherlock's skipped out on in the last few years."

 "Birthdays, Christmas, Easter."

 "Six a year, then."

 "Seven," Mycroft corrects him archly.

 "Sorry?"

 "You can expect an invitation for your birthday as well. Sherlock has ignored Mother's insistence about this since two thousand ten, but frankly we all expect you to have better luck getting him here."

 "I'd barely known Sherlock four months by my birthday in twenty-ten."

 "I recall," Mycroft replies in his please-punch-me-John voice. His phone rings. "Please excuse me. Start dinner without me if necessary." He disappears into the rest of the house. John picks up the gardening magazine on the coffee table and sits, leafing idly through it. Within a few minutes Marie bustles into the room. She is still a forceful character, and John can not imagine her in her heyday. He thinks of Sherlock. Maybe he can.

 "Come on, John, we're ready to eat!" Despite her brusque words she embraces him warmly and kisses his cheek.

 "Happy birthday, Mum. Good to see you," John smiles.

 "Oh, you too, dear. I'm so glad you got everything sorted out in the end."

 Sherlock has told him exactly how much his parents have been informed of when it came to Mary and the baby, but as she steadies a look at him with all of Sherlock's calculation along with a large deal of Mycroft's polite blankness, he knows she knows a great deal more than that.

 "Yeah," he mumbles. "Well. Home again at Baker St."

 She narrows her eyes at him, and he wonders how he has misstepped already.

 "Dinner?" he asks, to break the tension. "Mycroft took a call a minute ago, but he said to start without him."

 "Like hell," she snaps, surprising a barking laugh from him. Then she shouts. "Mike!"

  

As it's Mum's birthday, Will has cooked, and a simple but delicious-smelling selection of plates and dishes weigh down the table. John finds himself sitting opposite Mycroft, who is, as it turns out, rather personable. His leg is going to be bruised from Sherlock jabbing him under the table whenever he speaks to Mycroft, but on the whole he can't say he minds overmuch, because Sherlock is actually eating.

 "You'll have to teach me your recipe, I think, Dad. What do you put in this to make Sherlock eat it?"

 "Ah, that's a secret, I'm sorry. I do it for this one, see-" he pats Marie's hand, "and if I tell her, she won't need me for anything."

 Marie does not say anything, but she does capture Will's hand in her own, and John feels the need to look away from the small secret smile they share. It's surprisingly familiar, and terrifyingly intimate.

 

* * *

 

 

Three hours later, they are still sitting around the table, although John has cleared the plates and Will has packed the leftovers into the fridge. Marie has plied them all with more wine than they can drive home on, and is now amending Will's recollection of their courtship.

"She walked into the staff room on my first day, John, at the university, and I just- stopped. My God, I thought, this is the most beautiful creature in the world. She looked so young-"

"So did you."

"Beautiful and young, shut up love, and also pregnant and just starting to show. But _smart_ , John, you know what that's like, and seemed to put up with me enough to talk and make friends. It was her last semester, see, before she left work to have her little baby. I didn't know then, of course, what she'd be like with the boys, but I was just - how can academia lose this brilliant mind? What a crime. But her husband had a good job and she had a new focus."

John glanced at Mycroft, who was studying the weave of the tablecloth.

"I tried to make her stay, selfish, you know, but when she decides something, that's the end of it."

 "Like you can talk, dear. You're the most bull-headed man I've met," Marie chides.

 “I missed her terribly in the years when she wasn't working, so I found all her papers and studied them. Wrote her asking to explain them to me, like a lovesick fool. But I realised what I was doing, and eventually we stopped."

 "What happened?" John demands, ignoring Sherlock's huff of impatience.

 "I'll tell you what happened, John, one morning in the middle of term in she walks like she never left. God, I was furious."

 "What?"

 " _What_?" Marie echoes.

"Took me ages to get the whole story, but her husband-"

"Car crash," interjects Marie flatly.

"died in a car crash, and there wasn't quite as much money in savings as she thought-"

"Mistress."

"Because he was supporting a mistress."

"Oh," murmurs John.

"And she never thought to ask for help-"

"Geniuses can be like that," John agrees fervently.

"Mm. So she was back to teaching. I couldn't not chase after her, and for some reason she let me. And Mike, bless him, he knew what was up. He was already four when I met him, and before he was six he asked to speak with me, very proper, and wanted to know when I would stop wasting time and marry his Mummy."

John looks quickly to both brothers. Sherlock is cultivating his classic "bored" face, while Mycroft appears to not hear anything that is being said.

"'Ah, well,' I said to him, 'I think people usually only get married when they love each other very much,' because, you know, I thought it was complicated, not least by Mike. But it wasn't complicated to him at all. 'But Mister Scott,' he told me, 'Mummy loves you about as much as she loves me, which seems like a lot. And you love her back just as much. So you should get married.'"

Mycroft mumbles the last sentences along with Will, with flawless timing and rolled eyes.

"I've never heard this before," Sherlock says suddenly.

"Well, Mycroft obviously has!" John laughs quietly and stands to excuse himself to the bathroom. When he returns, Sherlock and Mycroft have disappeared and Will is fussing with the sofa under Marie’s instruction.

“I’m afraid we really only have the boys’ two rooms for beds, John, and Mycroft is getting ready for bed in his room, so-”

“No, no, it’s fine, don’t want to kick Himself out of his own room. Honestly, Dad, I can do that. I’ll let you two get some rest and we’ll be out of your hair in the morning, promise.” They say their goodnights and Marie kisses his cheek on her way out. John’s hardly finished tucking a sheet around the seat cushions and arranging and plumping blankets and pillows when his friend reappears, loitering in the doorway.

“With your height and the structure of that couch, you’ll-”

“No, Sherlock. I don’t want to know. Get some sleep, yeah? If we can get home before London turns into a car park tomorrow, that’d be amazing.”

He lies on his makeshift bed, letting himself be deceived by the immediate comfort, and mumbles a ‘g’night’ to Sherlock. Sherlock neither replies nor moves.

"Are you going to stand there all night and watch me sleep?" he demands.

"Would you even mind if I did?" comes the quiet response.

"God, I really should, shouldn't I. But no, not really, as long as there's no experiments on me."

"Mm."

After a few minutes, John shifts himself up to rest against the arm of the seat.

"Come sit down, then, you great child."

Sherlock does as instructed, picking up John's blanket-covered ankles and resting them on his legs.

"Thanks for giving Mum my number, Sherlock. I had a great night."

"You're part of this family," Sherlock reproaches him.

"I wish I was," he admits, and immediately regrets the last couple of drinks. He looks away, and sees a photograph of a young boy with dark curly hair clutching a dark red puppy in a frame on the table beside him. Picking it up, he guesses Sherlock to be five or six, and the setter less than three months.

"Redbeard," his friend rumbles.

"Hmm?"

"His name was Redbeard."

"Ah. Mycroft did say you wanted to be a pirate, when you were little."

"When on earth did he tell you that?"

John sets the frame back down. "When Irene Adler died. For real, the second time."

"She's living in America. She convinced the government to put her into a witness protection program. A long-term new identity, for free."

John's stomach drops. He'd forgotten the lie.

"N-no, Sherlock, Mycroft told me to tell you that. She's dead, I'm sorry."

"I know he thinks that. But we came to an arrangement, and I got her out of that fix in Karachi. She really is under witness protection in America."

"Uh."

"For God's sake, John, I'm not attracted to her. I'd rather talk about Redbeard."

"Do you have other photos? When he was grown up?"

Sherlock shrugs. "There's a terrible video with a horde of embarrassing moments. We were pretty inseparable, so he no doubt features."

Wriggling to find a better position, John grins.

"Put it on, then."

Sherlock staggers up to rifle through a cupboard and argues quietly with the VHS player for a few moments. He returns with the remote control, and a second of static clears into what John briefly thinks is Sherlock holding an infant, until he realises it is of course Will holding a tiny Sherlock.

“Okay, it’s going,” Marie’s voice says from the speakers. “Come on, dear, do it for me.”

Will shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and starts nodding his head. Then he begins to sing, and John knows that this is not Sherlock, but he feels a sharp pang of affection for his friend.

“I wonder what he'll think of me... I guess he'll call me 'the old man'. I guess he'll think I can lick every other fella's father - well I can! I bet that he'll turn out to be the spittin' image of his dad, but he'll have more common sense than his puddin' headed father ever had… My boy Bill; I will see that he's named after me, I will. My boy Bill, he'll be tall and as tough as a tree, will Bill!”

“Turned out half true,” John murmurs, and receives a poke to the arch of his foot. An unbelievably young Mycroft strides onto screen, and on the couch, Sherlock hits the button to fast-forward. When the video plays again, it shows Sherlock a little older than in the photograph, running around a yard, chasing and being chased by Redbeard.

"And here's our two rascals," Will was saying to the camera. "Why don't you show me your new trick with Redbeard, Liam?"

"Arrr!" the boy replies without slowing down. "My name's not Liam! I'm the Dread Pirate Sherlock, Captain of the Tarantula, scourge of the seven seas!"

"This is my son, the Dread Pirate Sherlock, Captain of the Tarantula, scourge of the seven seas," Will commentates calmly. "And his first mate, Redbeard The Pooper."

"Redbeard The _Terrible_!" young Sherlock cries proudly.

"'Liam'?" John asks mildly, and Sherlock mutes the video but leaves it playing.

"Until I was about eight, yes. I'm named after Dad, but Mum wanted to call me something that sounded different enough that we wouldn't get mixed up."

"She's a good thinker, is your mum."

"Yes." It was the highest kind of compliments, from Sherlock.

"Then why 'Sherlock'?"

"Mycroft is named after his father, too. He was seven when Mum was pregnant with me, and they told him they would name me William, he put on his _face_ , you know the one, and he said 'Yes, William is a good name for the baby, but he needs a Mycroft name too.' So of course he finds this book of awful old names and chooses one for me."

"But... I can't imagine you ever choosing to use something Mycroft gave you."

"Well, of course as a small child I gave him far too much credit. But it... it was really the pirate thing."

John laughed softly. "Really? How?"

"You can hardly be a pirate captain named _Liam_ ," Sherlock sneers. "So when I was playing, I was _Sherlock_. I suppose I pretended that rather a lot, and it stuck. Then I was Sherlock all the time."

"It suits you," John mumbles. He uses his foot to rub Sherlock's leg, turning back to the television to watch little Liam/Sherlock show off silently with Redbeard. Marie had clearly taken charge of the camera, as Will begins joining in, roughhousing with Redbeard and laughing with his son.

“I can’t say I ever really had any great desire to have children,” Sherlock whispers, and John stops breathing entirely to hear him better, “but if I did…” he doesn’t say anything more, but gestures loosely at the television. His hand, when it comes to rest, lands on John's thigh.

John is not yet ready to talk about how he would raise hypothetical children, but he thinks he might be ready to address this, this thing that nestles warmly between them. He reaches down to brush his fingers over Sherlock's.

"They're quite similar, aren't they, your parents?"

"To each other?" Sherlock turns his hand over, like an invitation, and John traces his fingertips around his palm. He does not look at Sherlock, not yet.

"No, to... us." Gripping his hand firmly, John closes his eyes, swallows hard and forces himself to say it. "Sherlock, I think we're practically married."

He waits for Sherlock to say something, but instead feels him disentangling his hand and easing John's feet off his legs. Grimacing, he tells himself not to cry or beg forgiveness for his stupidity. The sofa shifts as Sherlock stands up, and John is alone.

Hands slide over his cheeks, and he opens his eyes in surprise. Sherlock is on the floor in front of him, his face close.

" _Yes_ ," he says, and leans in to press his forehead gently against John's own.

John breathes him in.

"I thought you... hnn. I thought you were leaving, when I said that."

"Never. John, _never_. Can I kiss you, now? I've been waiting for years."

"Christ, Sherlock. Please."

The first press of lips is hesitant, almost disbelieving. John is, embarrassingly, still concerned about crying, although now for different reasons altogether. Sherlock places delicate kisses all over John's face, then shifts, insinuating himself in his usual manner to lie half atop John. With the television flickering light over them, John captures Sherlock's mouth with his own, glorying in Sherlock melting against him.

 

* * *

 

He wakes to a very full bladder, which is no surprise, and Sherlock's erection pressing against his hip, which kind of is. Stroking his hair, John murmurs to him to wake him up.

"Let me go to the bathroom, hey? We should get ready and go home."

Sherlock buries his face in the pillows and clutches John tighter.

"Like it here," he grumbles.

"I like it here too," John smiles, "but leaving an hour later will mean getting home two hours later; you know this. And," he takes a gamble, "I think you might like what we can do there, too." He slides his hand over the curve of Sherlock's arse.

"You make a good point," Sherlock concedes eventually.

From the doorway, a polite cough gets their attention.

“Figured it out, then, I see.”

Mycroft, already impeccably suited, looks at his phone and tucks it into his pocket, pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s furious glare.

“Good morning, Mycroft,” John says levelly. “Let’s never speak of this again. Please excuse me; I need to take a piss.”

 

* * *

 

In the car on the way home, his phone rings with a call from Mycroft. Sherlock sighs loudly but does not deny him answering.

“Did we forget something?”

“No no, I simply wanted to speak with you. Permit me to say my piece, and then I will abide by your terms.”

“My - terms?”

“To not speak about this. I’m quite sure I know the answer, but let me… check.”

“Oh my god,” John smiles in realisation. “This is the Big Brother Talk.”

“Something I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

“Honestly, I think I told Harry not to fuck up, more than I had to tell her girlfriends.”

“Which is precisely the conversation I had to enjoy with Sherlock while you ate breakfast. Now. This is not something you’re doing lightly?”

He settles in his seat.

“No. Not at all.”

“You know that he’s loved you for years?”

John glances at Sherlock, keeping his face calm.

“I’m starting to come to that conclusion, yes.”

“You know what happens to people who hurt my brother.”

He thinks of Mary, and acknowledges the cold heaviness in his gut.

“Yes.”

“Good. Truly, John, I’m very happy about this.”

“I can tell,” John says wryly, and the phone line goes dead.

“Was it awful?” Sherlock asks gingerly.

John reaches over to take Sherlock’s hand, and shakes his head.

“Just get us home.”

 

* * *

 

‘Happy’ doesn’t even begin to describe how John feels, but as they climb the steps to their flat, nerves start to creep and nibble at the edges. Sherlock is well inside before John’s finished climbing the stairs, and is curled up on their couch.

“If you’re still tired, get to your own damn bed,” John tells him, offering a smile.

“I’m not _sleepy_ ,” comes the offended reply. “I liked it, on the couch, together. We should start here.”

"Uh, okay." Sitting in the middle, he lets Sherlock curl around him. Suddenly Sherlock speaks.

"I'm clean. I've not engaged in sexual contact in years or any _particularly_ risky behaviour since I returned to England, and Mycroft insisted on my being thoroughly tested then."

"'Particularly risky'," John laughs darkly.

"I know you got tested too, after... everything."

"Yeah."

Sherlock begins pulling and pushing him, laying him on his back against the cushions.

"Conversation over, then?"

"Yes."

"But-"

"You haven't done this for a while. I have faith that you'll figure it out."

"How- okay. Okay."

In no time at all, Sherlock is lying over him again, and _yes_ that is very good. Slowly his hips roll and grind into John, who holds him so close, so tight, leaving no room for uncertainty. He grins unreservedly down at John.

"More. I - do you want more?"

John nods and nips Sherlock's jaw, up to his ear.

"Yeah. The couch is good, yeah? D'you wanna see what we can do in your bed?"

"I like it here," Sherlock repeats.

"You can't tell me we aren't a bit cramped, here. What if I laid you out on your mattress, and undressed you bit by bit? I could kiss you from head to toe. I could lie beside you, or between your beautiful legs, or-"

"Or kneel over my head," he adds, and the imagery that inspires makes John swear and thrust up.

"Yesss. Would you like that? Fuck, Sherlock, we can do whatever you want."

"Anything. Everything, John.”

He lets a smile creep over his face. "Let's go to bed."

 

* * *

 

John had thought he had plans, but Sherlock is devious, and after a time he finds himself desperately trying not to collapse onto Sherlock as he straddles him, an exquisitely long finger driving him mad with its caresses inside him.

"Wait, wait, ssss-no don't stop, just hang on a sec love, ah," he gasps and grips the base of his cock tight, trying to breathe deeply and evenly. "Don't want to come yet."

"No," agrees Sherlock. "You can't do that until you're inside me."

John trembles.

"I thought-"

"Don't. Just pull yourself together and I'll prepare myself."

"Ohhkay." He rolls off when Sherlock eases his finger out, wanting to watch, but when he promptly pushes two fingers into himself, John groans.

“Sherlock, you-”

“Are impatient, I know. Shut up.”

“God.” John _has_ to kiss him - to hell with watching when touching is an option. He slides his hands over pectorals and biceps.

“You’re supposed to be watching,” Sherlock chides with a little hitch in his breath.

“You know I love you, right?” John says in reply. “You’re never going to get my hands off you again.”

Sherlock pouts. “I was going to say it first.”

“What, ‘I love you’?” He shifts Sherlock so he can settle over him, and pushes in as he nods. Long limbs close around him.

“I fell in love with you first. I should get to say it first.”

“Go on then." He waits, body and face still.

Sherlock looks up at him, trying on and discarding a number of expressions.

" _John_."

His body is hot and tight around John, his face utterly guileless. He tries to roll his hips, to stroke himself, but John holds him still and pets his side until he calms.

"Come on, love, tell me."

Sherlock's face screws up in concentrated effort.

"John I love you!" he cries, and _yes_. John rocks back and forth inside Sherlock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.

"I love you too."

After that, he has no words, because Sherlock tips up his hips for a better angle and John can't help but push a little faster, a little harder. They crush their mouths together as he comes, pulsing into Sherlock's body.

"Your turn now," he pants, pulling out and shuffling down the bed. Sherlock's erection strains upwards, and John guides the head into his mouth, as he slips two fingers into Sherlock, lube and come easing the way.

It's been too long since he's done this to try anything fancy. He tongues at the slit and glories in Sherlock's yelping wail. Repeating that along with a gentle press around and over his prostate, it's a matter of a minute until his whole body tenses and he tugs at John's hair, so John pulls his mouth off, letting Sherlock grab himself and finish, spattering onto his stomach.

"You're so fucking beautiful," John has to say.

"Will you marry me?" replies Sherlock instantly.

"I - How long have you been waiting to ask that?"

"Four years."

He stares.

"I am a goddamn idiot, Sherlock," he breathes. He takes his fingers and rubs Sherlock's belly tenderly, smearing ejaculate across his skin. "I've wasted so much time."

“So, yes?”

John kisses him.

“Of course.”

“Say it? Please?”

He figures it’s only fair.

“Yes, I will marry you.”

"Good. You have to tell Mum."

"N-Like hell I do! She's your mother!"

"Yes, but she likes you."

"God only knows why," John grins.

"I know why," Sherlock assures him. "Because you're good for me."

**Author's Note:**

> headcanons primarily by stitchy, words primarily by me.


End file.
